Chapter 15 #2
Is it possible Sunny and I aren’t altogether different? Am I in danger of evolving into a joyless woman, moored to old grievances, wearing private losses across my face for all to see while harboring my story until it turns to sour milk in my veins?
Who sentenced me to spend the rest of my days as a quiet observer, anyway? Mark Twain, with his “better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to open one’s mouth and remove all doubt”? No. I wasn’t always this way.
Hard as I try to squeeze it away, Devin’s face floats between me and this typed page.
His mouth twisted in a patronizing smile.
Over time, what began as gentle mocking before we were married evolved into open ridicule.
The kind of words that become labels that become stuck to you like flypaper.
In this, I take a measure of responsibility.
I chose to do what I do best—subvert my feelings to keep the peace.
But when you try to help someone with that kind of soul-sickness, you end up becoming sick yourself. Self-gaslighting is a real thing.
After a while, Lucy Montgomery had been redefined.
My pulse thumps double-time at the base of my throat. Five years later, I no longer buy into those misdefinitions. Still, the whole post-trauma brain-rewiring thing takes practice. It takes time. And yet God is renewing me day by day. I can see it in the rearview mirror.
A broken man’s voice may continue to haunt me now and then, but you can feed me nails and call me Rusty, as my dad would say, if I allow it to wield any power over me. Never again.
Which at the moment means choosing to be completely present in my body. I pet Louie, now outstretched across my thighs and purring contentedly. Billie’s still reading. Deepening my breaths, I tune in.
“. . . My mother’s recipe box . . . harvest-gold appliances . . .”
I search for matching words on the page but can’t find them. Finally everyone flips to the second page and I follow suit. Aha. Now I can track, truly listening with heart and mind. Investing in the final paragraphs this brave woman crafted.
When Billie finishes, we all offer hums of approval. “Brava!” Bernard says with a graceful clap of his hands. He provides a touch of critique, followed by Ian.
I’m a little in awe of the way Billie managed to draw us into her story so gently. So I tell her. And with this comment comes an inner acceptance.
I’ve chosen to become an active participant in the Sweet Reads Writing Society.
“Thank you for saying so, Lucy,” Billie says, smiling.
“It took a long time to make any real headway. Years, truthfully, until I finally broke down and enrolled in a memoir workshop. And you know what? I got the best advice! I didn’t have to start with the most painful part of my story.
I didn’t need to go full trauma right from the beginning.
I could start gently, build self-trust. I could honor my story without retraumatizing myself. ”
Crossing my arms, I lean back, let her words take root. Then I furiously write them all down.
“I’m having a hard time coming up with a working title, though,” Billie says. “It’s a quiet memoir, obviously. I haven’t scaled any mountains or anything. I’m no Cheryl Strayed. So if you have any ideas . . .”
A thoughtful silence descends.
I pet Louie and fire up the creative juices. Titling articles is one of my favorite tasks at the Messenger. The first thing that drops into my mind brings an irrepressible grin to my face, and without thinking—“Tame?” I say, tossing it out there with a playful shrug.
Oh no. Oh no-no-no-no-no. Where is my filter?
Immediately all eyes are on me, and I feel my face flush.
Not only did I say exactly what I was thinking without premeditation, I wore a sly smile while at it.
In other words, I was being myself. Which means I’ve officially unveiled my utter dorkiness and there’s no going back to merely being thought a fool.
A corner of Wyatt’s mouth quirks up.
Ian cocks his head. “Sorry, what did you say, Lucy? I didn’t catch that.”
I’m already red-faced. May as well own it. “Oh, I said Tame.” I shake my head dismissively. “Sorry. It was . . . I was just joking.”
Wyatt blurts a laugh, then surveys the others’ nonplussed expressions. “It’s a joke,” he echoes. “Cheryl Strayed titled her memoir Wild, so Lucy’s suggesting you call yours Tame. A little, you know, word humor.”
“Very little,” I say.
Bernard cries out, “Huzzah!”
“Ah, of course!” Ian says.
My eyes seek out Sunny’s. Huh. Humor dances there. And maybe, just maybe, an almost-smile. Enough to warm her whole face. For a fleeting moment, I glimpse a much younger version of Sunny, and it might be the most satisfying thing I’ve felt in a long time.
What can I say, I’m weird. I’m a weirdo. But if I pretend to be someone I’m not, how will I ever find the ones who appreciate my hidden weirdo?
“I’ll keep brainstorming, Billie,” I say. And I will. I’ll redeem myself if it’s the last thing I do.
Later, friendly chitchat continues as everyone gradually disbands for the night.
I linger in my chair, petting Louie and feeling surprisingly unhurried.
This was, dare I say it, fun. And I suppose the accountability is helping.
At least I put my butt in the chair this week, spending some companionable hours with the vintage typewriter I’ve now nicknamed Smitty.
Even if all I did was type up recipe cards.
But if someone happened to peek in my window, they at least saw someone who looked like a writer. Maybe actual words will come in time.
Is it impostor syndrome if you’re an actual impostor?
All to say, I’m willing to stick this thing out for a bit and see where it goes.
When we hit the thrift stores this weekend in search of Halloween costume ingredients for Chase and a pair of squeakless shoes for me, who knows—maybe I’ll score a deal on some kind of desk for the west-facing corner of my bedroom, where the sun lingers the longest. And then I’ll bedeck Smitty’s new home with plants, and maybe even a—
“Are you planning to stay here all night, Lucy?” Nytasha drops into the chair next to me. I make a half-decent attempt to give her my full attention, but I’m trying to maintain a mental grip on this glorious vision of my new writing nook.
I call up a smile. “Oh. Well, I had a whole plan until a cat fell asleep on my lap.” Louie lifts his head long enough to glower at Nytasha.
“You know, Lucy,” she says, “I get you.”
“Oh?” For the desk, I’ll look for something that’s either white or a light wood to maximize the light reflection in there. And—
“You,” Nytasha says, poking my shoulder a little too aggressively for my liking with her long, orchid-like pointer finger, “are a scrubby little juniper who wants to be a ponderosa.”
Our knees touch. The corner of my left eye twitches. “I’m a—”
“Oh, don’t feel bad. You are simply a woman who hasn’t yet learned how to manifest.”
“How to . . . ?”
“Girl. I got ya.” Nytasha produces a business card. “Now, my next forest bathing session is coming up a week from Saturday, and—”
I hold up a palm. “Nice. It’s just that—”
“Oh, this isn’t like normal forest bathing. None of that aimless, fir-scented wandering. I’m no granola. My sessions are intensely focused. Transformational. There’s a waitlist, of course, but I’m willing to make an exception for you, Luce.”
Ack. I hate to be so particular, but I’m very selective about who gets to call me Luce, and Nytasha hasn’t yet made the list.
“By the end of session one, we’ll have you burning away all of this”—Nytasha splays the fingers on her right hand and paints a wide circle in the air over me—“dead outer bark.”
Louie hops down, pausing to slice a disapproving look at Nytasha before strolling away.
I brush fur off my chinos. “Yes, well, I—” I can’t wait to inform Nytasha in no uncertain terms that Saturdays are an absolute no-go. That is, if she’ll ever give me the chance.
“But the real fun begins in session two! I call it ‘Confronting Your Inner Sapwood.’ Now here’s my number. Text me, and I’ll give you all the particulars. The first session is fully refundable if it doesn’t completely unblock you. But it will, I’m quite—”
Nytasha’s attention has ping-ponged elsewhere, over my shoulder.
“See you then,” she says quite abruptly, rising to leave without a backward glance.
Turning, I apprehend that her next target is Wyatt, poor guy.
Although, who am I to say what type of woman he might find interesting.
Maybe Nytasha is the exact species of towering ponderosa he’s been waiting for all his life.
I button my cardigan. Maybe he’s into all that clothing-optional, wilderness woo-woo. None of which is in the least bit my concern.
In fact, at the moment I’ve got a standing appointment with an adorably freckled amateur ecologist and then some flannel sheets.